By Lauren Camhe
It was just your average, run-of-the-mill Saturday night when I heard the news. It is seemingly impossible to fathom that in my three and some-odd years here, I have yet to hear anything quite as devastating. Pale Dog, a Newark superstar, had shut down, and this was no temporary leave of absence; this was permanent. The news hit me the way I would frequently hit the ground when I fell off the stage at the Pale Dog – hard and unannounced.
Many people can say they are a loving, adoring fan of the late, great Pale Dog. But I know I am one of few who can say they are a Pale Dog warrior. From the spring semester of freshman year to the spring semester of junior year, Pale Dog wasn’t just an event – it was top priority for minors everywhere who were eager for a night of unadulterated mayhem, and for those courageous enough to take on and survive a Pale Dog bus trip. Pale Dog was a safe zone for laminated pieces of computer paper chalked with a sharpie and some cleavage; and for many, it was paradise. Now that I am an official Pale Dog veteran, a tear comes to my eye every time I reminisce.
It has been a few days since I found out, and a picture of what looks like it could be an unfinished basement still lingers in my memory. Pale Dog defined much of college for me, and by that, I of course am referring to the generous amount of life-changing events that took place there. This, among many other reasons, was why I needed to be notified of a bus trip at least three weeks in advance. My schedule had to be clear. I would find myself studying days before a test just to witness a night where 17 couples break up, 25 more unexpected couples start hooking up, and everyone, yes, EVERYONE gets ass. And for two years, even if Pale Dog was held on a Tuesday before a huge midterm, you bet I would be there. I never missed a beat.
Everyone lucky enough to experience the Pale Dog Tavern will never forget the smiles on their faces as $2 SoCo-Lime shots flooded the dirty concrete floors while adolescents partied to a master mix of music from “Rent,” and 40 year old Newark natives roamed in search of the easiest teenager to get their blood flowing again. So as I bid farewell to my island of dreams, I only hope that the incoming classes of this academic institution experience something even close to the euphoria and sheer embarrassment that existed and occurred within the muddy walls of the Pale Dog Tavern. Now when I look back, I smile knowing that two of the finest years of my youth were spent there. I laughed, I cried, I was even escorted out unconscious. But no matter how badly my face was scarred, bruised, and imprinted with the official “Pale Dog” hand stamp the morning after, it will always hold a special place in my heart. Rest in peace, Pale Dog – it is truly the end of an era that I wish I remembered in detail.
to each their own 